


Leaving Vulcan

by bluestonearcher



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Betazoid, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bureaucratic Nonsense, F/M, Loss, New Vulcan, Vulcan, dubious horticulture, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestonearcher/pseuds/bluestonearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulcan horticulturist Awih'len was lucky enough to be on Earth, setting up a garden for a client, when Nero's attack struck down his home planet. </p><p>Written for a loss/comfort prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first prompt!! Thank you very much to JM2010 for offering me this challenge. I've tweaked it a little bit, because apparently I'm glutton for punishment and coming up with difficult pairings.
> 
> The prompt (neutered to remove spoilers):  
> A Vulcan man and non-Vulcan woman are brought together through grief of loosing family and loved ones in Nero's attack. 
> 
> Sorry it's taken so dang long for me to actually post this thing. (I'll admit, Mr. Nimoy's passing reminded me that I'd written this but never posted it.) Got several chapters ready to go, but expect an every-other-week-or-so update schedule as I'm a weirdo and am trying to illustrate while I write things.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, I make no profit from this work. It's only an exercise for fun, yadda yadda. Original characters are my own; other than that, the universe is under the auspices of Gene Roddenberry's house, Paramount's publishership, and JJ Abrams additions.

“Mr. Awih’len!”

The young Vulcan straightened up from the hole he kneeled in. A group of Sol-tanned humans in denim work clothes followed behind the helmeted supervisor. Against all sense of his own biology, Mr. Randy Engels wore his usual long-sleeved button down shirt, thin tie, creased black pants, and glossy black shoes. Spackled now with tan and red sand. Suited, perhaps, to the office portion of his job, but within the artificial atmosphere of this system of domes the human quickly acquired damp patches around his collar, under his arms, and at the small of his back. Even the sleeve at his wrist darkened as he continuously wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Finally got you some local help!”

Awih'len climbed out of the irrigation hole as they drew near. A couple of them blinked up at him in apparent surprise – either over his height or his species.

“The assistance is appreciated, Mr. Engels.”

“They're all locals, so hopefully they'll be more prepared for the heat,” Mr Engels said, already wiping the sweat from his forehead in his usual fashion.

Awih'len lifted a curious eyebrow at the helmeted human. “From the reports you have detailed to me, I was lead to believe that the local temperatures here rarely surpassed forty degrees celsius. Am I incorrect?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. They don't. But it's not like we can expect someone from the east coast to come in and be able to work a full twelve hour day!”

His recollection of the Earth labor laws were a bit different, but he'd learned early on that repeated correction of humans – especially human males – typically led to ill will.

Mr. Engels did a mumbled bit of introduction to the group, clearly pronouncing his name, if not the laborers. A couple of the men exchanged greetings of their own, even going so far as to extend their hands for greetings.

Over the years of setting up these habitats across this planet, and dealing with a variety of cultures, he'd learned that it was easier – more expedient – to meet this greeting in kind, rather than take the time to explain how, in his culture, it was far too intimate an act. The first time had been embarrassing – the land owner stood at his side, insisting that he shake hands before they move on to the work – but with his shields firm, emotions firmly in check, and thick leather gloved on, the faux pas could be... tolerated.

The last man in the group, Manuel Suarvez, possibly the youngest for the lack of lines about his eyes, gave his hand a hard up and down jerk, his fingers exerting impressive force for his species.

“You all just follow Mr. Awih’len,” Mr. Engels insisted with a tight, thin smile. “Just let me know if there's any problems,” he directed towards the Vulcan before disappearing back the way he came.

“So, what're we making here, Mr. Awih’len?”

“Just Awih'len will do,” he corrected, gentle. “Considering our duties and the short duration of our acquaintance, there is little purpose in honorifics.” Another adaptation he'd picked up a couple “jobs” ago. “This biome is set to mimic a specific arid environment from the planet Vulcan. Rather than being an authentic replica, the intent is to produce fruits and vegetables to meet the horticultural needs of the local university – providing natural supplements and vital nutrients to the Vulcanoid student population, any plants needed for scientific experimentation, and to provide nutrition to the animals in the behavioral de-”

“Right. Garden.”

Awih'len nodded once, making a mental note to be more concise.

“Precisely.”

“What's up with the fancy patterns,” asked Manuel.

“Fancy patterns?”

“Yeah. You've got some weird looking holes started. Aren't ya going to plant in rows?”

“Ah. Rows might be the most logical solution for large fields with mechanized equipment to till, plow, sow, water, and harvest. Because this is a small, enclosed environment, direct contamination is a concern.”

“That why we had to wash our hands and boots and put these stupid paper booties on?” Manuel lifted his foot, pointing to the pale blue covering.

“Indeed.”

“Doesn't explain the flower pattern, though.”

Awih'len looked out at the desert field. He'd dug a few holes to prep the area, admittedly fewer than he'd wanted to get done by now. This particular area he'd marked off with pegs to find the most efficient arrangement for irrigation purposes. Blue pegs marked off where the clay ollas would be buried, and surrounding each of these pegs were eight others, designating one of a handful of succulents that were intended for this area. By surrounding each of the watering stations with the plants, every cubit millimeter of space would be utilized, with enough bare area between each growing area to allow one person to walk comfortably between, with the buckets of purified water.

“That is simply the most logical pattern to utilize.”

“Come on, Manny. Stop bothering the foreman. We're here to work, not gab.”

Awih'len directed them to the provided tools while internally debating how much needed to be explained to get the required tasked accomplished.

The glass filtered the New Mexico sunlight into something soft, to his eyes, but the humans swiftly adjusted their attire as they worked, most removing their shirts, putting on sunglasses, tugging on wetted bandanas or brimmed hats. Within a few moments they were prepared and joined him around one of the freshly dug holes.

“I am having some difficulty getting the required depth without collapsing the neighboring holes,” he admitted.

“Need them so close together?” Jorge, who appeared to be the oldest of the group, but that might have been the effects of long exposure to the native star and a proliferation of fine lines around his eyes and mouth.

“The primary markers, the blue pegs, need to be one point nine five meters deep, so that the ollas – those vases – will fit to the marker on their neck once buried.”

Awih'len pointed towards the bisque fired crockery. Manuel attempted to lift one by the neck – possibly to bring it closer to the hole to measure it's depth – but succeeded in only shifting it slightly with a loud grunt.

Jorge and GP rounded on him to assist.

“This hole is not deep enough yet; no use bringing it over until it is.”

“Measuring stick, then,” Jorge decided. GP nodded and turned to find one.

“Maybe if we wet the ground?” Manuel suggested, coming back to the hole. “Like with a sand castle?”

“Could work,” Jorge murmured into his facial hair. “Get me a shovel, kid. Let's see how deep we can get it before it starts falling in on itself.”

The Vulcan clambered out of the hole, allowing the humans to take over the space. They flung the dirt farther away than he had – leading to more work later and partially obscuring the secondary markers surrounding it – but they were more successful in getting closer to the necessary depth. The aerated nature of this particular sand-soil mix leant towards easy moving. Sometimes too easy; the sides collapsed in on themselves as the men quickly shoveled the particles up and out of the way.

“Just about the right depth,” GP declared, keeping an eye on the line of tape he'd wrapped around the handle of a shovel to indicate the marker on the ollas.

Awih'len nodded and went over to the crockery. They'd been mold-pored from a pale red terra cotta clay. He'd utilized this particular manufacturer on three other job sites, and found the work impeccable.

She threw the original shape for him on a wheel, allowing him to stand by and make comments about the shape of the belly, the thickness of the neck, the opening at the top. The ratios for each biome, indeed, within a biome, were quite specific. If the neck were too wide or the opening too large, then all the water would simply evaporate away. If the belly too deep, then all the water would seep out into the ground underneath the growth of the roots. The walls too thick, the water could not seep out, too thin, the roots – of some plants – might wrap around the clay and shatter it, leading to whomever tended this flora to digging out the ollas and dealing with the delicate surgery needed to remove the shards from the established plant roots.

This particular set stood a few centimeters over a two meters tall. The bottoms were tapered to blunt points – they needed no feet to stand upright, so the excess clay would be a waste. Instead, the fabricator had supplied wooden crates that supported them by their bellies, until they were ready to bury. The necks were wide enough for two of his tapered fingers to delve inside, as long as his forearm, and the opening just as wide across as his palm. Once everything was settled, wide stones placed over the tops served well enough to keep insects out. The bodies of this set bowed out nearly as wide as his shoulders.

“Need help with those?” The young man tagged about in his shadow.

“I am quite capable,” Awih'len responded before wrapping his bare arms around the vessel and lifting it up and over the wooden lips of the supports.

“Wow.”

The Vulcan did not waste time lifting an eyebrow at the stunned statement from the short human. True, his greater strength and reach made the task possible – but he had to be careful lifting it, avoid knocking it against the supports they'd been shipped in, and breaking the heavy vessel.

The crew surrounded him, guiding him to the hole he couldn't see. All of them attempted to guide him, each in different terms and distances. The terra cotta slipped in his leather-clad hands as he looked around it to ascertain who had the right of it.

“Down down!”

“Easy does it-”

“You got it, just a little farther-”

“Just let it slide down the side and then-”

“Oof!” Awih'len's foot slipped on the rough incline. The vase's bottom caught on something and knocked into him, tipping his already tenuous balance over.

The Vulcan landed on his ass, pinned between crumbling, wet sand and terra cotta.

“Quick! Get it off of him!”

“I am uninjured,” he said with a groan.

“Other than your dignity, maybe. Come on, boys. Heave it up!”

Between the humans, arms trembling with their efforts, they got the vessel off of him and pointed roughly upright at the bottom of the hole.

“You sure you okay, Boss?” GP asked.

“Winded,” Awih'len admitted. “But I will survive.”

“What'd we do with it now?” Manuel asked.

“Replace the substrate, packing it tightly so that the vessel does not shift as it is filled with water.”

“Uh-”

“Put the dirt back in the hole, dummy,” Jorge said with a grin. “You three, keep it upright, and we'll shovel. Awih'len? How 'bout you keep an eye on it and make sure it stays plumb.”

The Vulcan regained his footing, tugged his shirt into some semblance of order, and did his best to guide the men as they slowly returned the earth to it's former location.

The final result, once he'd tamped down the sand, was a slight hillock, with three centimeters of terra cotta lip protruding.

“Rock on! We got it! Now what?”

“Now, we place the remaining two-hundred and forty-nine of these vessels. Then we place the five hundred smaller vessels in the adjacent biome. After this is accomplished, we can begin transplanting the flora.”

“You just had to ask, eh, Manny?”

The young man gave a sheepish grin but gamely hopped over to the next blue marker and began digging.

“All this by hand, eh?” Jorge asked him.

Awih'len nodded. “We are recreating a very delicate biosphere that has been difficult to reproduce, even on Vulcan. If runoff from another facility contaminates this one, even a few loose particles caught in a wheel or dripping from the housing in a rain, then the balance might be disrupted and-”

“Got it, boss. All by hand. Keep clean while we're in here.”

Awih'len sighed and nodded.

He picked up a discarded shovel and put his shoulders to work and tried to blank his mind to all but the work.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the assistance – he always did, those rare times that those who'd hired him to oversee these constructions had a large enough or long enough project to require them – but the succinct, unscientific minds that surrounded him on this planet were... dull. Where he ached to have a lengthy discussion of the merits of aesthetic horticulture, and how one might plan for a site to not only be functional, but pleasing to the eye, others simply wished to see the task accomplished. Or, perhaps, a new, more efficient usage for mixed plantings, perhaps attempting to use _alswet_ stalks as the growing platform for _gerwalli_ beans, as long, of course, as the stalks were started early in a hot house so that their seasonal cycle would put their strongest point – just after harvest of the fruit, but before the reaping of the sturdy stalks for their fibers – would be able to support the heavy weight of the _gerwalli_ as they sucked up vital fluids before hibernating.

“Srrk'kar Awih'len.”

The young Vulcan blinked up noting, peripherally, that the tone his name had been stated in indicated that it hadn't been the first time the speaker attempted to gain his attention.

He'd picked a spot to dig a little away from the others, or they'd picked a spot a little away from him. Regardless, they now stood, only heads showing above ground like some demented planting. Staring, of course, and the cluster of Vulcans surrounding him. Each immaculate: perfectly cut black hair unruffled by work or massive ventilators, naturally pale skin nearly translucent and glowing from the green blood within thanks to a quiet, indoor life. Robes neatly gathered at perfectly fitting hems at shoulder and throat, the crisply embroidered _rata, tafar, tapan_ over their sternums gleamed a silvery newness.

Awih'len clawed his way up to their level, gave his clothes a quick dusting – entirely too aware that he'd fallen in the sand and hadn't taken the time to neaten himself – before lifting his hand in the ta'al.

A short, downward quirk of the woman's lips made him pause, before he realized he still wore the over-sized leather workman's gloves. He slipped them off, refusing to blush from embarrassment, and held them in his non-dominant hand.

“We have come to inspect the work, to date, at this facility,” she stated in the educated accent he'd become used to hearing from the high-level individuals from the VSA. Her hands remained in the voluminous sleeves of her dark grey robe as she introduced the fellows to either side of her. “Administrator Sh'vank. Subcommander Sarat. I am Captain T'Veden.”

“Administrator, Captain, Subcommander,” Awih'len greeted in turn, attempting to keep the deep rural rumble from inflecting his Golic.

“Report,” the Captain clipped at him.

He toyed with the idea of standing at parade rest a moment but gave as mature and professional a nod as possible down at the officers and indicated with a sweep of his hand a logical place to begin their tour.

“As you can see, we are at the primary stage of the irrigation system.”

“From our reports, the rain fall in this sector is more than adequate for the task of a few equatorial farm fields.”

Awih'len blinked in confusion at the Administrator.

“Closed system, sir,” the subcommander supplied. “While humidity in this region is at a tolerable five to ten percent mean, throughout the year, the temperatures are such that a frost is capable of reducing the crop to non-viable status.”

The administrator huffed. Awih'len nodded a subtle thanks to the subcommander for the explanation.

The human workers stared openly as Awih'len lead the cluster of officials past where he'd been directing them. The Vulcan spared a moment's curiosity wondering if any of them understood Golic.

 _Most likely not_ , he decided.

“Please continue the irrigation pits,” he said to them, in Earth Standard, before he was out of their hearing range. They went into sudden motion, digging with a scurrying frenzy. He blinked in confusion at their sudden vigor. “I will return shortly to move the vessels.”

“We'll leave them to you, Boss. No problem.”

Awih'len's lips twitched downward at the sudden elevation of his status to Boss. A none-too-subtle clearing of a throat brought his attention back to his compatriots.

“I doubt I shall ever comprehend the actions of the human species,” the Captain stated. The pinch of her nostrils told him that her stronger olfactory senses had been offended. _By the humans?_ He glanced back at the men, already waist deep and disappearing fast into the substrate.

“They are merely curious. We are most likely the first sentient non-human individuals that they have ever seen in person. I have found that this species, while often unpredictable, has an innate curiosity that...” his voice trailed off at the three identical, uncomprehending stares directed his way.

“Perhaps you have been on this planet for too long,” Administrator Sh'vank decided.

Awih'len did not flinch away or grit his teeth. “What feature would you like me to present to you first?”

“The decontamination systems,” the subcommander suggested. “Have you had any difficulties keeping up protocols while getting the framework in place?”

“No,” Awih'len said, directing his feet in the proper direction. “I have utilized a specialist whom I have worked with on previous tasks. While the environmental complications of this habitat are more precise than the others, we have only to test certain modifications, rather than make solutions of wholecloth.”

Much to Awih'len's discomfort, the delegation remained for the rest of the available daylight. Ostensibly, they had come to make sure that everything was continuing to plan. In reality, each of the had a basic knowledge in the theory of horticulture and decided that – considering his station well below theirs – it was their task to test every element of his planning to insure the project was not destined to fail.

Awih'len theorized that the captain had practical experience in planet-wide terraforming, based on her suggesting such... impractical changes as slowing the rotation of the planet by a hundredth of a percent to increase the daylight to the correct amount. The administrator blindly agreed with the captain, obviously leaning on her hands on experience, along with advocating more impractical adornments to enhance the visual aesthetics of the dome. Attempting to explain that _thwona_ ferns needed more standing water than the dome could support was met with a dismissive flick of the fingers and an note in the file to order water barrels to hold them. _Ssdgnk_ held the potential to hybridize with some of the flowering fruit trees, producing a poisonous plant on second generation that would have to be carefully weeded. _Gvudm_ had meditative uses, certainly, but only the priestesses of certain orders had access to their seeds. And if the leaves, rather than the pollen, was harvested by nonVulcanoid volunteers from the school... Awih'len attempted to delicately explain the negative hallucinogenic side effect and ended up stonewalled with the “simple solution” of “Then only Vulcans shall be employed with maintaining the crops.”

Whenever he attempted to explain that wasn't a feasible plan – the amount of labor needed to do basic maintenance and upkeep of a full biome meant asking at least six full time students to also pull work study hours along the order of thirty hours a week – he was shot down immediately and informed that his task was to _plant_ not to _plan_.

As the sun set and the automatic lights came on – Awih'len's solution for the shortened daylight – the local workers and Mr. Engels all gathered around their little cluster. Mr. Engels wrung his hands, obviously uncomprehending of the situation and nervous about whatever it was the officials were discussing with his appointed foreman. The local men were drenched in sweat and caked with dirt. Awih'len regretted loosing a day's work with them and vowed to himself to be of better assistance on the next day.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Engels asked, when Administrator Sh'vank paused to breathe.

“There are some... complications,” Awih'len attempted to be diplomatic.

“They are not complications,” Captain T'Veden said in clipped Earth Standard. “The required modifications will increase productivity of crops and include other non-edible produce.”

“Oh!” Mr. Engels brightened, his white grin splitting his face in a thoroughly distressing manner. “Is that all?”

“The adjustments to this biome have an up-to thirty percent chance of increasing yields of edible materials,” Awih'len said. “At the cost of increasing the temperature of the dome by ten degrees Celsius, making extensive adjustments to the day-night schedule, and requiring at least four more workers on an ongoing basis to maintain these changes.”

“It is a minimal adjustment in exchange for greater efficiency,” the captain argued.

“I have already calculated the needs for this environment to be at it's greatest efficiency,” Awih'len countered. “There is a limit where increasing productivity in exchange for the cost of labor, materials, draining the soil of it's reserves-”

“It's just solar energy,” Mr. Engels equivocated. The tone of his voice uncertain. The fingers pressing against his thigh as he counted numbers to himself obvious.

“I have currently routed all available solar power to the heat generators,” Awih'len stated. “We draw off of the grid for all other electrical uses.”

“We... draw off of the grid at night for the heat?” The human asked. Awih'len nodded. “We'll just have to put up more solar panels. And get backup generators. ...And get backup batteries for night use. ...How much over budget will that put us?”

Awih'len did a quick calculation based on previous jobs. “At least seventy-five percent of last year's operating budget to be able to cover the minimum increased power usage, if you wish to no longer rely on the outside grid for assistance.”

“Crap.”

“And you will need to purchase more land, or rights to lands, as well. Your acreage is at capacity.”

“What about the east fields?”

Awih'len shook his head. “They do not receive adequate daylight to be useful for a solar field. You would not recoup the loss of the initial investment in additional power gain.”

Mr. Engels looked back and forth between the Vulcans surrounding him. Awih'len hadn't been working with the man for long, but he trusted that he'd see the sheer folly of these changes. For a long stretch of silence, his stout shoulders were pulled back, jaw set.

“Administrator Sh'vank? Perhaps we can talk in private.”

“As you wish.”

Awih'len remained where he was as the short human, dappled in sweat stains, lead the delegation off to discuss their plans.

“Well, that looks like bullshit if ever I saw it,” Manuel said.

The Vulcan blinked down, surprised to see the men surrounding him with various inscrutable looks pointed at the cluster walking away.

“Bullshit?” Awih'len quoted.

“Oh great, you taught the alien to cuss,” Jorge murmured.

“Excrement from a beast of burden,” Awih'len clarified. “I am aware it is intended to be a rude statement, but not why Manuel chooses to use it.”

As the labors gathered around and filled his ears with a mixture of sympathetic remarks about idiot bosses and anecdotes meant to raise his spirits, his eyes traveled back to Mr. Engel. The sudden droop of his rolled shoulders. The long nod and the vague gesture for the Vulcans to follow him to his trailer. In that moment Awih'len realized he'd lost the battle for bureaucratic sanity and any hopes of finishing this project on time, on budget... or perhaps, at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at updating when I think I'm going to be able to update; I'm sorry about that folks. Plus side, at least, I'm mostly moved in to a better place with a better paying job, and now my commute is less than two hours a day! Yey!
> 
> Anyway, story for you!
> 
> This chapter will be following our heroine, a Betazoid. Since they're active “listeners,” as in, practically every species projects to some extent and they hear it as though the person is talking out loud, I've attempted to write as such. It's a bit of an experiment for me (as much as I do enjoy writing about telepathic species, it's usually controlled circumstances where I can note... yeah. You know, I'm sure).
> 
> Anyway. If it's in italics, but no quotes around it, it's Ishta thinking to herself and she expects that others can hear her (if someone near-by is “receiving,” that is). Italics in quotes will be someone else thinking. Sometimes I will be specific as to who is doing the talking, sometimes not. Just like real life, in a crowded room, it can be difficult to “hear” properly. If things aren't clear, let me know and I'll edit. Anyone want to beta for me?

Ishta hummed to herself while she wiped a splatter of paint from her paintbrush. She stared at her canvas for a while, cotton rag in hand with the sable bristles scrunching under her fingertips. The sunset was developing beautifully, but not _exactly_ right.

She missed the colors of home. The way the clouds of Betazed refracted the light. The shine of shattered crystal light dancing over dewdrops, blades of grass, the sweat on a lover's skin.

The colors she could find here, on Earth, were fine, of course. She'd found substitutes, over the past year. The yellow chrimsha of home no longer accessible, but ochre was....

Alright, it wasn't right. It was muddy and red and it didn't _glimmer_ the way good yellow was supposed to. A watercolorist who showed in a local gallery figured a way to paint on metal, and promised to teach her the technique one of these days. The steel that artist used wouldn't work, of course, but maybe a burnished gold? Or brass, perhaps.

She sighed, eyed the brush, dipped it in the cup of turpentine again and rubbed it against a clean spot in the rag. The moment she touched the redder parts of the canvas, it seemed to seep everywhere. She wanted _pure_ yellow. Not orange. Or tan. Or mustard.

The communicator rang, just as she touched the bristles to the canvas again. Of course her fingers twitched, sending an unwanted little dabble of white dripping down into the reflection in the lake she'd intended to let dry for a few days more before trying to rework.

Ishta stuck her tongue out, tossed the brush aside, and elbowed the button to activate the speaker.

“Yeah?”

“...Is this the residence of Is... he... ta... shane...”

“Ishitashanane Smith née Guondel,” Ishta clarified, before the man butchered her name any further. “Yes, this is she. How can I help you?”

“You are the wife of Commander Gregory Adrian Smith, engineer for the USS Tripoli?”

Ishta wiped her hands quickly and picked up the communicator, disengaging the speaker. “Yes.”

_Oh god._

“Ma'am...” _Oh god._ “I regret to inform,” _Oh please no._ “That there has been a terrible,” _No, not not-_ “Incident. We do not know all the details yet but-”

Ishta slid down to the ground in a heap.

“He was just here. Only a couple months ago. They couldn't have been in deep space yet, couldn't have even been out of-”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but as I said, we don't-”

“Is he alright?”

“I don't-”

“ _Please_. Just tell me if he's alive.”

“...there has been no communication.”

“That's nothing,” Ishta insisted. Her voice rising in pitch and volume 'til it echoed tinny even to her own ears. “They're out of range for months at a time. It's normal.”

“Not when they're in Vulcan space, ma'am. I'm sorry, but I have other family members to call.”

“What?! What was this? Some preliminary call? Aren't you supposed to tell me not to worry? Something?”

The silence on the other end of the line was telling.

“I have other family members to call, ma'am. Starfleet will be notifying everyone as soon as more information is known.”

The moment he hung up – _I didn't even get his name!_ – the line buzzed again and she immediately answered.

“Yes?”

“Oh Ishta,” her elder neighbor sighed in relief. “Thank god I got you. You're line was busy!”

“I know, I just got-”

“Is your viewer on?”

“My... what?”

“Your viewer! Your TV! Turn it on!”

“To... what channel?” Istha asked, dubious as she wriggled under one of the sofa cushions to find the clicker.

“Any channel!”

She flicked it on, expecting the usual automated signal from the Weather channel, since that's what she had on last. Instead, a live reporter was being piped in over the broadcast.

Grainy, blurry footage, obviously piggybacked from another channel from the stacked icons in the lower corner, filled the screen behind the reporter.

An image of utter horror and destruction as a deep red planet collapsed in on itself.

She flicked through her preset channels, trying to find someone not screaming. Someone with better footage. Anyone who could even say what-

The remote and the communicator dropped to the floor, as one screen, the feed snatching in and out between horrific clarify and bit lines of data, showed what she feared most.

The news scrawl under the feed labeled the planet – all too clearly. But the worst... was the spinning bit of debris. A few letters readable. Just for a second. - _ipoli_. She might not be the fastest reader of Earth Standard, but she knew _Tripoli_ at a glance.

“Ishta? Ishta, can you hear me?”

Her neighbor's shouts over the communicator were barely audible over the roaring in her own head.

_He's gone._

_There's no way the Tripoli is in so many pieces and he'd be alive._

_What about lifeboats?_

_Oh god. He's gone._

The bit of feed repeated itself several times before the newsman reported a new vid coming in, his eyes as wide as dinner plates while he fell silent, watching the clip for the first time along with his viewers.

Vulcan rotated, whole in the background. Ishta's brain hiccuped a moment before she realized they'd received an earlier feed. The massive ship opened its beam weapons as ship after ship dropped out of warp around it. Slicing through the lot of them like.... like....

And there. The _Tripoli._ Just a brief little glimmer – nothing more than a familiar silhouette in the dark – before she, too, was simply snipped to pieces. Not even time for lifeboats, as the... whatever it was, methodically chopped up her hull before moving on to the next ship. Dispassionate. Unfeeling. Efficient.

Ishta felt the push of her neighbor's mind a moment before she knocked on the front door. _“Poor child, they only just moved in. Her husband's dead and now there's no one to look after-”_

“Come in,” Ishta shouted.

“You dropped the phone dear, _Probably lost all of her senses_ , so I wanted to come check on you. _Who knows how these damn aliens are effected... she's been so quiet and withdrawn since his ship left spaceport. At least all those damn parties stopped._ ”

“I haven't been withdrawn, I've just been-” Ishta swallowed the rest at the blinking confusion on the older woman's face. _Of course that isn't what you were saying._ “Do you know anything?”

“ _Know anything? Like I'm some idiot?_ Past what the news says, no. Vulcan was destroyed _good riddance_ by some unknown ship. From all the noise _didn_ _'t she hear all the ships leaving?_ It sounds like the whole fleet left orbit. _Maybe things will start to be peaceful around here.”_

“The whole fleet,” Ishta whispered, her eyes dragging back to the screen without her permission. Untold wreckages zipping in and out of existence. And then the feed cut out again.

She needed the touch of another. Not physical. Their minds. Needed to feel the pulse of their lives. The inconsequential hopes, dreams, needs, fears. Needed to... not be alone.

Ishta shoved past her more-than-slightly speciest neighbor – well intentioned or not, the underlying hatred burned yet another painful knot she couldn't handle right now – and ran until the soft touch of a thousand minds focused on their internal monologue enveloped her.

She ran down the slope, past houses and front yards filled with playing children. Dark echoes of adult minds inside; housewives and househusbands watching the video on endless repeat.

Up the next hill and along a busy highway, she felt the buzz of shoppers. Midday meant folks hurrying too and fro to get lunch before diving back into their cars. People snagging a bit of a snog in the back seat. The pizza guys cramming too many boxes into their little two door transports. Coffee shops overflowing with disgruntled, rushing minds.

But not today.

Today, there were still people. Not as many. And every mind she passed played those videos again and again. Vivid colors and screaming voices supplied by a thousand imaginations let reign.

Ishta burned to do something, anything. The hum of human minds simply wasn't enough to fill the... what had been... the pleasant quiet in her mind.

She trudged on, half hearing the dissonant notes around her. The calm, slightly cool spring breeze tempted her.

The birds sang; their simple minds filled with lust and guarding territory. Squirrels ran to and fro, judging which humans to beg from and which to run from. A few dogs tugged their people by their leashes; incessant with _“Go!”_ and _“Smell!”_ in a mental language filled with concepts she couldn't translate from the kaleidoscope of scents and tastes and colors and sensation.

Still, she continued onwards. Her mind open to all around her. Some deep, still, rational part knew she was searching for him.

_Imzadi._

She _knew_ she'd never find him.

Not listen to his careful calculations; the gentle engineer who shielded so naturally, for a human, and surrounded himself with other quiet, shy, precise, kind people.

Never feel the coarse prickle of his arm and chest hair as he held her.

Never hear his quiet voice as he sung while grilling in the back yard. Not even aware if he were vocalizing or just replaying some tune to himself.

A gentle, rhythmic shushing filled her ears, drew her out just long enough to realize she'd walked straight into the water of the bay. Brackish. Sluggish. ….Burning?

Ishta lifted a foot.

Her feet were bare – _did I put shoes on today? -_ and where there weren't blisters, she sported open wounds.

Ishta blinked around her, the location finally settling in.

_The bay._ _And there's the Golden Gate. Must've been walking for hours._

Whenever homesickness struck, Gregory tucked her onto his bike. She'd cling like a little burr to his back and wonder at the world passing by. They'd go into Starfleet headquarters and he'd take her to one of the big astroprojectors and they'd marvel at the whole of Betazoid's northern hemisphere playing across the dome overhead. Ishta didn't think it was real time, but she didn't pry and he didn't offer. The constellations were always right, and that's what mattered. The familiar Bird's Nest, the Holy Rings, the Delphan Star, the Lode Star.

Missing home hurt a little less.

He'd take her hand, kiss the palm, close her fingers over the admiration he felt towards her.

And everything would be alright. For a little while.

Gregory would marvel at her bravery. So brave, his mind echoed, to leave everything for him. She renounced her claim as heir to her house, lost her citizenship, left her world behind, and in it's place, he treasured her every molecule. Every moment. Every movement. Every sigh, even over subspace. Every kiss and touch and-

Ishta pressed her fists into her eye sockets. She couldn't block the pain; in truth, she didn't want to.

All she had left of Gregory resided in their house and in her mind. The pain, as much as it hurt – her eyes burned, her throat ragged with untold sobs – it stood testament to his love for her, and she would not turn that way. Not block it out.

The bridge called to her. Memories of the time with her Imzadi called to her. So, Ishta's hot, bleeding feet carried her there.

The sun-heated metal soothed and burned at once. Thousands of minds, some talking, many more speeding by, filled her inner silence. Roads became thick with tourists, officers, hopefuls. Closer and closer to her destination, echoes of turmoil washed against her.

“ _It's gone. It's gone.”_

_“My husband.”_

_“My wife.”_

_“Only one month to retirement.”_

_“He was just a child.”_

_“What idiots thought that sending untrained cadets was good-”_

_“Why him! I should have been on that ship!”_

_“What'd those Vulcans do to deserve-”_

_“Fucking Romulans will burn for this!”_

_“Bet it was the Klingons. They’re the only ones disgusting enough to-”_

When the shockwave hit her feet, Ishta was already clutching her head, screaming.

She didn't need to look up. Thousands of minds projected the darkened cloud, the vicious points of metal stabbing the sky. The horrific weapon drilling right where she'd been just minutes ago-

A blast of wind knocked her to her knees. Others tumbled around her. Falling into her.

Panic, the blind panic of cattle trying to escape their deaths, washed over her. Paralyzing her as the humans clawed their way to their feet and ran as one. Sharp heels trampled her.

Ishta curled in on herself, trying to protect mind and body.

A hard nodule pressed against the heaving tide. Hard duty, painted black and unreadable but for the red touches of frustration bent over her, shoving the panic aside.

Strong hands clutched her shoulders, dragged her to up, stayed on her until her feet supported her.

Ishta blinked, uncomprehending, as a gold-shirted...  _Admiral!_ She stared at his pips as he held her, shook her.

“I'm okay,” she answered, finally, when she realized what he was probably asking. A short nod and he shoved her along with the crowd.

Duty, purpose, drove him onwards towards the destruction.

Ishta focused on that. The calm, professional intent. Used his mind to block out the hundreds around her. Focused just enough to keep herself upright as all around her desperately attempted to escape, and yet look back at the same time. Part animalistic need to see if the predator _still_ followed, part morbid curiosity to see _what_ followed.

Somehow Ishta escaped the stampede. Her mind buzzed at the sudden lack of sound.

Then Betazoid looked up, taking longer than usual to sound out the alien letters. The icon, however, she processed without thought. Hadn't she stroked over that embroidered sigil often enough while straightening his uniform before shift?

She passed like a ghost through the empty halls.

Eventually, a persistent buzz tickled at her ear. Empty hall led to empty hall until the buzz became a hum, then whispered, and murmurs, and finally shouts.

Ishta opened the doors on a hundred voices, all fighting to be heard over one another. A hundred minds clamping down on their panic in favor of industriousness.

_“What is she doing here?”_

_“Who is that?”_

_“God, she looks awful.”_

A few noticed her, but spared nothing more than a glance before returning to their tasks.

Another admiral, this one in red, approached. Wariness loud in his mind, his eyes filled with her bloody feet, even as he met her gaze with a reassuring smile half-convincingly plastered on his face.

_“What does she want?”_

“I want to help,” she answered before he got the chance to ask aloud. “Please. I have nothing left.”

The truth echoed in the sorrow of her eyes, plain enough for the man to read without empathetic abilities.

_“Which ship?”_

“The Tripoli,” she answered again.

“My-”

“Please. No condolences, just tell me what to do.”

One nod, just a short downward jerk of his chin.

By the time he found her a desk, she'd calmed enough to glean the purpose of this room from those around her.

Rescue efforts. Trying to figure out who still lived, dispatch rescue ships, organize what little they had left....

_Yes. This, this I can do._

 


	3. Chapter 3

That fateful day began like any other for Awih'len.

He awoke well before dawn in the modest cottage he'd rented while working this project, meditated, and dressed in his close-fitting work coverall. No longer white, he noticed when he glanced briefly in the mirror inset in the adobe next to the door; stained a pale, tannish-pink thanks to extended exposure to the local sandy substrate.

As he had for the past three months, he watched the sunrise over the distant horizon as he walked to the facility, arriving well before the usual human workmen and foremen.

The usual sterilization routine held a meditative quality all it's own as he blew compressed air over himself, scrubbed with a dry cleanser and stiff bristled brush, blew again, scrubbed again, blew again, then exchanged his boots and gloves for sterile duplicates.

Without the work crews, the silence in the glass-covered biome hummed in his ears. Outside, at least the sound of the wind and the occasional bird reassured his senses that the external world existed. The artificially emphasized heat soothed the ache in his muscles, the air – even more desiccated than the natural New Mexico atmosphere – dried out the mucus in his nostrils. He took a deep, unencumbered breath, stretched his shoulders, picked up the discarded shovels from the previous day, and hiked off to where the most recent holes had been dug.

Within an hour and a half, he had another section of a two meter trench dug and the manpower to help move the larger irrigation piping. Thanks in part to recent additional changes ordered from his superiors, the ollas he'd originally had custom ordered were no longer sufficient for this particular region.

His team worked with familiarity and comfort around one another now. Manny, to the amusement of his comrades, picked up a few terms in Golic; rarely used them correctly, endlessly asked him for more and more obscene equivalents to Earth Standard curse words. Awih'len doubted that Manny intended to say “syphon my masquerades” to his friends _quite_ so frequently, but the translation was... literal to the words, if not accurate to the intent, and if anyone who understood Lowland Golic happened by while he attempted to “curse them out,” even if he did reproduce the accent correctly, would simply assume he was failing to attempt something innocuous.

Hopefully.

Awin'len had the mid-day sun painted across his back, knee deep in another trench, when a shadow fell over him.

“Srrk'kar Awih'len.”

The Vulcan bit back a sigh at the now familiar tone of Captain T'Veden. He buried the shovel with more force then was entirely necessary and turned to face her.

“Captain,” he greeted with neutral hostility. “How may I be of assistance today.”

“There are a few points that need to be covered before the opening alumni conference this weekend.”

Awihlen patted the dust off of his gloves and tucked them into a loop of his belt. Over the months of frustrating, yet logically debated hostility, he and the Captain has dropped the formal niceties; doubtless she felt he was beneath her in all the ways that counted up in her ship, and for all her sway with the Administrator and other officials, she didn't have any dirt under her fingernails. They might deliver plants and order him to find space in the beds, but they knew little more than what their databases told them.

True, manjusha flowers were aesthetically pleasing (no doubt used as cultural adornments at some essential diplomatic function), but no archive Awih'len knew of discussed the oral traditions of its petals, it's roots. How in the times before Surak, the plant symbolized the dual nature of the universe. Man, woman. Love and hate. Creation and destruction. The flowers, the reproductive organs of the plant, decorated specific quarters of many Lowland villages – the universal sign of those woman, and men, who sold their services to aid others during their Time. Depending on their preparation, the flower petals might be dried into calming sachet, for the tranquilizing scent, or their roots fried and brewed into tea for ... aid a woman, after her Time. Or eaten whole, to end the torment before one's mind was lost.

If the Administrator had only ordered the manjusha, the ignorance would be easily overlooked, but that was simply one of the dozens of species that they had demanded he add to the plantings. In a private garden, personal preference held more sway than resources and viability of habitat; with a larger establishment – intended for a greater purpose – well, efficiency need take a greater influence over the whole.

Of course, explaining this to a group of individuals accustomed to the receiving all their requests, in a timely manner, meant explaining, multiple times, and being outvoted in the end as a part of the bargain.

“What points does the administrator feel need to be addressed?” Awih'len asked, clasping his hands behind his back and tipping his head towards the tablet in the captain's hands.

“Administrator _Sh'vank_ ,” she replied with hard emphasis, “Has several differences of opinion on the-”

“If he has issue with my refusal of the Amantalis Afidius that I turned away at the quarantine gate, then Administrator Sh'vank is more than welcome to state his objections in person.”

“Mr. Awih'len.”

“No,” he interrupted. “I have allowed far more of his pet projects to seed my gardens than was entirely warranted, sound for the long-term ecology, or safe for the human workers hired to be caretakers here. As it is, we will have to hire, train, home, and support at least three vulcanoid caretakers for biome three alone. I have allowed enough humanoid-toxic plants to fill that one, displacing a sizable variety of less noxious choices the university requested at the expense of precious space. That biome will remain off-limits on the pain of poisoning, anaphylaxis, and toxic shock responses to any local assistance who tread into it. As it stands, I still am waiting on materials to construct a secondary clean room so that the vulcanoid workers will not be endangering their humanoid counterparts.”

“A. Afidius is a small, decorative plant. It's flowers represent the first blossom of logic to the Northern-most–“

“It's pollen is toxic to vulcanoids and humanoids. The only way to render it safe is to remove its reproductive organs before the flower matures and opens. Each plant has over a hundred flowers at the height of its pollination season. If one wished to pollinate and propagate the species, one would need to import burrowing snowsand bees. Burrowing snowsand bees serve no horticultural value, other than to spread toxic pollen, making it airborne. They masticate the bark pulp into a pulp to build their egg spikes in the ground, which harden into formations hard enough and sharp enough to penetrate most armored boots, delivering their payload of parasitic eggs into their new host to serve as incubator until they are ready to burst from subcutaneous cysts in their larval form and continue their life cycle.

“When one of the students steps on one of those spikes, I will no longer be here to explain to them that the logical solution is to amputate the leg. Before the bees hatch. No doctors on this planet are capable of regrowing limbs, vulcanoid or humanoid. With the toxins in the spike designed to debilitate their host, the removal would require at least two centimeters of removed flesh per hour between injection and treatment time. That means amputation not at the ankle, where a doctor might easily replace with a prosthetic, but likely through the long bones. Or higher, while the doctors attempt to discover what's wrong with the patient.

“If it had been safe to toss seedlings in the fire, I would have done so, Captain T'Veden. Regardless of what favors Administrator Sh'vank used to bring them to this planet. Seeing as they have, up-until very recently, been one of many on the list of contraband flora to be removed from Vulcan's surface.

“It would be foolhardy of me to assume that I could assemble a safe environment for that plant.”

“While Administrator Sh'vank is disappointed with your decision,” Captain T'Veden replied, after an incremental pause for the muscle in her jaw to tick. “He would be more accepting of said decisions if they had been explained and permission requested. Rather than outright refusal and destruction of sensitive, expensive, difficult to obtain specimens.”

“I will endeavor to seek permission to dispose of toxic materials on the next occasion,” Awih'len said. His jaw ached with each carefully modulated word. “Is there anything further, Captain?”

“Actually, yes. Follow me, Mr. Awih'len.”

His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, which he carefully crossed behind his back in a semblance of her metered march. Awih'len nodded to the men as he followed the captain past them. Used to her interference by now, Manny gave a double thumbs up, but the others just nodded acknowledgement to his temporary disappearance.

Awih'len followed the captain as she led him farther away from his workers. By the set of her shoulders, she had something _she_ felt was important to discuss. If it was something _actually_ important was an entirely different matter. The sounds of the humans digging in the substrate faded to the insect's hum in the distance before she made a sharp pivot on her heel to face him.

“Supervisor Awih'len-”

The tall Vulcan cringed at the formal title. Considering her military bearing, either she chose to use the put-upon title as a reminder of his status below her or-

“Need I remind you that your position here, on this planet-” Or that. “Your _authority_ over these humans means that even in your lowly position, you are serving as a representative to our people.”

Or both, apparently.

“You will need to clarify, Captain.”

“You are behaving in a- in a-”

“In a...?”

Her face darkened and her brows dropped down into a suspicious scowl.

“Are you intentionally attempting to goad me into an emotional reaction, Supervisor Awih'len?”

“No, Captain.” Awih'len straightened his spine a bit taller. He might have no idea what she drew him away from his crew for, but he wouldn't admit that to her.

“You are behaving in a,” she swallowed, her eyes darting away for the first time. “In a manner unbecoming of an officer.”

Awih'len blinked in confusion. “I'm not an officer.”

“That isn't,” she glared back up at him a moment before turning her back on him completely. “That is not the point. It does not matter if you are a military officer or a hired civilian. You have been behaving in a manner unbecoming of a representative of Vulcan.”

“What have I done to warrant this accusation?”

“You have been – been – _carousing_ with those _human_ workers!”

Awih'len blinked again in confusion. “'Carousing'? I can not-” Awih'len strained to think of an instance where any interaction could be construed as such. “Are you implying the familiarity I have fostered with the young humans I work with?”

“ _Familiarity?_ ” Captain T'Veden nearly shrieked. “You call _that_ familiarity?”

“Manuel has shown interest in learning Golic,” if no interest in learning anything that might be said in polite company, “And I feel it is important to reward curiosity with honest answers, when any of the men-”

“ _Curiosity_ does not explain your presence, _last night_ , at the- the- the whorehouse!”

Awih'len cringed. He suddenly had a very clear notion of what had riled up the captain. How she found out, however...

“The men invited me on an excursion to town. They wished to show me how humans live in this part of their planet.”

“And you accepted. An invitation. To a whorehouse.”

“I did.” Awih'len straightened. He would not be intimidated by this diminutive brass-shoulder. “Not to a whorehouse. According to Manuel and Jorge, the Dancing Violet Bar and Grill has the best grilled portobello mushroom burgers on this side of the Rocky Mountain range. While I must admit I do not have extensive experience with this planet's fungi-”

“The Dancing Violet is a whorehouse.”

“It is not a whorehouse,” Awih'len argued. Even the feel of the word on his tongue was distasteful.

“They serve alcohol and meat. Naked females dance for the entertainment of the patrons.”

“If one asks for water and the vegetarian menu, it is served just as readily.”

“You have no ready come-back for the accusation of nude dancers?”

“No,” Awih'len answered truthfully. “Save that they had male dancers as well.”

“Supervisor Awih'len!”

“It is not my place to just what humans find to be suitable entertainment while they dine. And as an exercise in personal growth, I found the event to be quite enlightening. The human body can show impressive suppleness and vigor, given correct conditioning. And without obstruction, the a- AH!”

The pain hit sudden and hard. A lance through his mind. Through his very katra as all the bonds within his mind were ripped violently from him.

The pain in his knees, in his palms, echoed dully up his limbs.

_I've fallen,_ some dull part of his mind noted. A shadow of a shadow.

His deep screams were echoed only a meter away by the high pitched shrieks of the captain. That same dull voice urged him to go to her, to comfort her. But the rest of him was gone. Too far gone. Lost in some deep, unending well that he could not fathom.

The links that led to Mother and Father and Brother stretched thin to nothing towards that void, distorted and shredded bloody raw and snapped back at the wounded flesh of his mind. Even that soft, tenuous link with his Intended was no more. Gone as if it had never been. Gone, and in it's place a great nothingness that sucked at his katra, urging it to follow it down, down....

“Awih'len! Awih'len! Can you hear me? We've called for help, but dispatch don't even know what to send! Awih'len!”

Human minds touched his katra. Human skin touching his. Screaming loud and rude and full of uncensored, unfiltered, unapologetic emotions, thoughts, dreams, worries.

At once, his mind attempted to reestablish its connections, its lifelines in this scary, alien would.

It was Manny touching him, smacking his cheek and shaking him. His voice high and anxious and screaming nearly as loud as Awih'len's own.

He turned away in revulsion. His stomach clenching uncontrollably and expelling his breakfast.

Darkness surrounded him. Called to him. The song of silence loud and soothing with all the howls about him. His katra receded into that deep dark. Grateful for the nothingness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in updates. Between moving states, changing jobs, getting promoted (and with a paycut, lol), retrained, blizzard, flu... life has thrown a lot my direction of late.
> 
> The good news is that Chapter 4 is completely written, just needs an edit or two and it'll be ready to go. Bad news is, Chapter 5 has eluded me. Better news is, Chapter Six is basically finished as well, lol. So, warning, sporadic updates will continue for the foreseeable future.


End file.
